The Delicate Heart
by Epiphany Paige
Summary: Loosely connected drabble/one-shot compilation. Expect Locklyle angst, fluff, and lots of snark and sap. Sometimes all at once. (Spoilers! I suggest finishing the books first. T for romantic/Very Mildly suggestive themes, and possibly for language and violence. Nothing worse than in canon, though. Cover by me!)
1. You Know I'd Die for You

"_Oh, c'mon, Luce—you know I'd die for you."_

Those words have haunted me for months. I can still hear it even now; the soft, almost joking tone in which Lockwood had filled me with joy and plunged a cold knife into my heart in the same breath. The way his lips had quirked into a gentle, lighthearted grin did nothing to ease the pain his words brought me.

The worst part was that I knew he'd meant it. After all, I had plenty of proof—just a few weeks beforehand, in the Wintergarden house, he had almost killed himself in his attempt to save me. Not to mention the countless times in the previous eighteen months when he had put other's safety above his own.

Don't get me wrong; I don't think Lockwood _wanted_ to die. He was protective, not suicidal. But that didn't mean he wouldn't put himself in harm's way for me over and over again. I knew he would.

That was just the kind of person Lockwood is.

"_You know I'd die for you_."

If the words of the Fetch hadn't catalyzed my fear for the future, Lockwood's certainly had. He was right. I did know, and it terrified me beyond words to think about.

But this was all easily solved. The Fetch had told me that it was _my_ doing, so I simply needed to remove myself from the situation. Without me, Lockwood would live.

No matter how much I loved him, there was no way in hell I would be selfish enough to stay and endanger him further—and yes, you heard me right. It didn't dawn on me until the drive home to Portland Row after the Chelsea incident, but I finally realized why my heart ached and my breath nearly stopped every time he looked me in the eyes… or why the sight of the Fetch, in that grisly, deathly disguise, had driven despair so deep into my soul that it seemed it would never leave me. The revelation put the whole dilemma into startling clarity—and if anything sharpened my resolve.

Anyone'd be hard pressed to get me to admit my feelings out loud, least of all to Lockwood himself. I had no idea what response that kind of thing would elicit from him, and a large portion of me never wanted to find out. Telling him, telling _anyone_, was beyond my capabilities, and would likely be a waste of time anyway.

Now that I was gone, though, at least I could admit it to myself. It's not like I would be seeing him again.

I don't know if I would be able to bear it if I did. As it turns out, my heart is a lot more delicate than I'd wanted to believe.

* * *

A/n: that line has been echoing around in my head for the past week and a half, and it made ME feel like all the wind had been knocked out of me - so you can imagine how that affected poor Lucy.

There might be more drabbles/one-shots later, but I'm waiting for some rando to return the TCS audiobook to my school library so I can listen to it. I am beyond impatient about this, which has led to me breaking my #1 rule about fanfics: don't start reading _anything_ until you've caught up, or you'll get spoiled. And boy, have I... now I need to hurry up and read TCS so I can stop myself from coming up with horrid theories about everything. Don't you spoil it for me!

A/N 2: LMAO THE SECOND I POSTED THIS I GOT A NOTIFICATION THAT THE BOOK WAS AVAILABLE... im literally so excited I could cry right now. J. Stroud knows exactly how to hook me on a book series...


	2. The Silver Dress

A/N: Thanks so much for the positive feedback! I literally just finished TEG like an hour ago and this is definitely going to become a drabble/one-shot compilation. I can't promise any sort of long form, plot driven fics, mostly because I don't have any ideas at the moment. I'm also pretty sure I would be forced to abandon the project after like 3 chapters because life regularly comes back to kick me in the behind.

Either way, I have a couple ideas I want to explore for drabbles, so there should be at least a couple more! Believe me, the vast majority will be more fluff than angst. I think.

(Also, I've made a Locklyle spotify playlist because I'm sappy like that. It's called "loving the sun in his smile" on Spotify. Check it out!)

* * *

Anthony Lockwood sat in the basement of 35 Portland Row, trying hard to focus on the mug of tea in his hand. It was harder than normal, though—for the past day or so, a single image had risen over and over again, unbidden, in his mind's eye.

It was all that Lew Tufnell's fault. Lockwood narrowed his eyes in disgust at the thought of the man evaluating Holly and Lucy (more like leering, really) when he thought their backs were turned. The way his tiny eyes had hovered on Lucy's hips especially made him want to flat out refuse to work with the man. But a case was a case, and they weren't likely to get one any better in the next few days. He'd be sure to charge extra if Tufnell made any more uncouth comments about the girls—he'd come up with some reasonable sounding excuse for it.

No matter how much Lockwood disliked the man, though, a stray comment to Lucy had wormed its way into his mind: "Well, you're a bright little shower, and no mistake. Scrubbed and shiny and pleasing to the eye. I could find jobs for one or two of you in my shows, if this agency gig doesn't work out." (At this, Lucy had barely suppressed a grimace.) "Couple of little dresses, a few sequins, twinkly tassels in appropriate places… You'd fit right in."

In the moment he'd quickly brushed the comment aside, redirecting the conversation more or less to the topic at hand. Unfortunately, Lockwood's thoughts would not be so neatly corralled.

The image had formed oh so easily, too—he could picture _exactly _what kind of dress it would be. He'd seen pictures of professional ice skaters, once; and now his brain overlaid that sort of short, curve-hugging dress onto Lucy's well-endowed figure.

In that mental image, Lucy was folding her arms to herself in that way she did when she was uncomfortable, which did more to pronounce the curve of her bosom than anything else. Her dress was a silvery blue that contrasted perfectly with her hair and honestly looked more like a slightly overlong and clingy shirt than a dress. It barely reached the tops of her thighs, with a short slit up the side. The previously mentioned sequins traced swirling patterns on the body of the dress and onto the sheer long sleeves, the plunging back, and the border of a diamond-shaped keyhole cutout on the front. Tassels adorned the hem of the dress, matching the ones that dangled from her ears.

He'd even imagined her facial expression—eyebrows furrowed as she glared waveringly at him, biting her lip in a way that made his mouth go dry. She would turn away from him, and the hem of the dress would flutter with the movement. Granted, the dress in his imagination was not much shorter than the skirts she normally wore, but what was truly breathtaking about the whole thing was that her usual leggings were absent—her legs were bare, and his mind's eye traveled down to see shining silver heels…

"You all right, Lockwood?"

A familiar voice dashed the daydream from his mind like a stone thrown into water, and he was wrenched back into the present.

"Hm?" he managed to get out as he just barely escaped choking on his tea.

Lucy looked hard at him from beside the sink, her face carrying clear concern as she stirred her own mug of tea. "You were kinda zoning out there. Sure La Belle Dame isn't still clinging to you?"

Ah, so she was still touchy about that.

"No, no, that ghost is long gone," he replied lightly, taking another sip. "You took care of that.

She released one brow from its furrow to raise it at him instead. "Then what has you so spacey? I said good morning four times and got nothing."

"Oh, sorry Luce. Just thinking over some details of the case. It's nothing important." He searched for something, anything, to change the flow of the conversation. His eyes alighted on her with renewed interest and just a _touch_ of evasion. "Is that a new haircut? It looks nice."

Lockwood watched as she slowly turned pink, muttered a quick "thank you" and all but dashed into the library, leaving him to daydream about that dress once again—but this time, the model was blushing from head to toe.


	3. As If There Was Ever Anyone Else

I was having a wonderful day. Okay, sure, my favorite skirt had gotten ruined during a case, I'd stepped carelessly into a puddle and splashed dirty water all up my leggings, and I'd forgotten my wallet at home. Not to mention how I had tripped over the ever-growing pile of dirty laundry spilling from my laundry bin that morning and managed to simultaneously bang my toe and my funny bone at the same time. I'd even had the misfortune of catching a cold the week prior, and I had just barely regained my ability to breathe through my nose. My voice was still a little hoarse, too.

But still, none of that mattered—because at that moment, I was sitting side by side with Anthony Lockwood.

We were situated on a park bench, halfway through our (now routine) evening walk; my arm looped casually through his, our knees pressed together as we looked out at the twilight.

Our conversation that night had been thinner than usual—I could tell something was on his mind, but as usual, I wasn't sure how to bring it up and so waited for him to do it. Instead, we had chatted idly about the new flavor of crisps at Arif's corner store and the bird that had somehow nested in the chimney of 35 Portland Row, all the while silently dancing around the topic Lockwood was really thinking about.

His distant thoughts usually worried me, and tonight was no exception. But the worry was tempered by the way he grasped my hand during our conversation as if he was anchoring himself to the present through me. And I was more than happy to be that anchor.

You see, there was a secret part of Lockwood that only I knew about. The part that was far less composed than his normal demeanor, that struggled to find words. The part of him that held all his deepest emotions and was usually kept under lock and key. Whenever I caught a glimpse of that Lockwood, a little thrill went straight to my stomach and ignited a comforting warmth within me.

I had sensed that lock easing open a little tonight, and so I waited only somewhat impatiently for Lockwood to talk about what he was thinking.

Still, it took me somewhat by surprise. It didn't help that he didn't really ease into it, either.

"Lucy," he had started slowly, finally breaking the silence between us. I looked at him, and his dark eyes took a moment to meet mine.

"Why me?"

I blinked at him, nonplussed. "…What?"

Lockwood gave a short sigh and shifted in his seat. "I mean, of all people, what made you choose me?" He turned his head away from me now as if he didn't want to hear my answer.

For a moment, all I could do was gape at him, good mood evaporated. Then a frown overtook me, and the words blurted out of my mouth before I could stop them.

"_Excuse_ me? Are you really asking me what I think you are?"

This obviously wasn't the response he was expecting. He angled back to face me again, bewilderment making his jaw slacken a little.

My arm was still linked through his, and I tightened my grip on his forearm while I continued. "'_Of all people'_?" I repeated, a little bit of anger slipping into my tone. "After all we've been through together, you think I just made some choice like I was deciding what socks I should wear?"

He stared at me, realizing too late that he'd set me off. He opened his mouth to interrupt me, but I barreled on, swept up in my indignant anger.

"It wasn't some _choice_! I didn't just go, 'Ah, I think I'll fall in love with Lockwood today' one morning, you _idiot_!"

At this, he blinked rapidly, as if a strong wind blew in his eyes. My words echoed vaguely in the back of my mind, but I was too far gone to stop and think about the implications. My grip on his arm was a vice at this point, and I almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

"Seriously, I can't _believe_ you—" I released one hand from its hold on his arm to jab at his chest. "_You_, the one who gave me a job when I was nearly homeless, who has saved my life I can't count how many times, the one I've spent years worrying over!"

A hot, angry flush rose on my face, and I stared him down. "You can be so unbelievably dense sometimes—'Of all people,' my foot! As if there was ever anyone else!"

Rant complete, I clamped my mouth shut, exhaling sharply from my nose in finality. Lockwood stared mutely at me, ostensibly to make sure I wasn't going to pick back up again.

It was at this point the full weight of my outburst dawned on me, and my flush of anger swiftly turned hotter as embarrassment joined the mix. I could practically hear the low whistle the skull would've let loose, had I brought it with me. I turned my gaze swiftly to the ground, my hands, the distant lights—anywhere but at Lockwood.

The silence became unbearable.

I made as if to stand up, but Lockwood swooped forward. Gently but firmly, he held me by the shoulders.

I froze.

Instantly, all my residual anger snuffed out like it was an apparition and his slender hands were made of silver. For a moment nothing rose to take its place, and all I could do was stare, wide-eyed. He was so close I could have counted his lashes. His gaze flickered to my lips, and then, before I could react, he kissed me.

My mind went completely blank. It took a solid second for me to react, which would have been fatal if he were a ghost. As it was, it felt like it was going to be fatal anyway.

My eyes fluttered shut, and all I could think about was how warm he was, how alive.

The kiss couldn't have lasted more than a few seconds—it was nothing more than a peck, really, but it felt like time had stopped nonetheless.

I missed his warmth immediately when it was over. My eyes opened, and it took a moment to focus on his face. Pink bloomed on his pale cheeks, and I grinned a little in surprise.

I, Lucy Carlyle, had made Lockwood blush! Of course, his face was no match for mine, which was hot enough to cook an egg at this point. But still, it was the principle of the thing.

"Don't say something so stupid ever again," I warned him, trying and failing to look stern.

He chuckled, low and soft, flashing me a reassuring smile that would have made my knees go weak had I not already been sitting down. "I won't."

* * *

A/N: sometimes you have to provide your own fluff, okay


	4. An Accidental Girl's Day

"Lucy?"

I whipped my head up at the sound of my name, nearly dropping the pair of lacy underpants in my hands. My panic wasn't ill-founded—Holly Munro was standing not even a meter behind me, her facial expression a mixture of curious and dumbfounded. Who could blame her, though? Neither of us expected to chance upon the other in the lingerie section of a department store, of all places.

"Holly!" I had trouble regulating my volume and tone in my shocked state, so it came out more like a harsh whisper than the nonchalant greeting I wanted. "What're you doing here?"

She blinked at me, apparently unsure how she should state the obvious. "Oh, I needed to get some new tights. My favorite pair got a run down the side."

I hastily shoved the lacy underpants back into the clearance bin I'd pulled them from, trying to use the second it bought me to recover my wits. "Oh, that's too bad. I don't wear tights for that same reason, actually." That was only partially a lie—the other part was because most tights wouldn't go over my hips without cutting off circulation to the entire lower half of my body, but she didn't have to know that.

"I'm just looking around, myself," I supplied, finally managing to get my voice to sound even slightly unruffled. Holly looked unconvinced but thankfully didn't say anything.

"I'm actually kind of glad to run into you here, Lucy," she said, glancing at a rack of camisoles. "I've wanted to go shopping together with you for a while. Like a girl's day, you know?"

A girl's day? With me and Holly Munro? If it were a race between that and the end of the Problem, I would bet my money on the latter. Sure, my initial suspicion and dislike of Holly had more or less dissipated by this point, but we weren't exactly best pals, either. But then again, she was still _technically_ my closest female friend—if only because I didn't have any others. (And no, Flo didn't count. My relationship with Flo was more like estranged sisters-in-law than anything else; we only really met because of George or Lockwood, never on own accord.)

"A girl's day," I echoed, unenthusiastic. "Yeah."

A large part of me wanted to simply say a hurried goodbye and sprint out of there never to speak of the moment again, but I still needed to replace my now ruined outfit from the previous night's case (a denim skirt, faux vintage t-shirt, and my favorite sports bra had all gotten stained with ectoplasm _and_ a spilled soda, if you're wondering) and this was the cheapest option within a half hour from Portland Row. So, against my better judgment, Holly and I walked around the department store together.

We made quite a pair—Holly in a stylish cropped jumper over a high-waisted navy skirt and ankle boots; me in my standard combination of black leggings, faded plaid skirt, ragged trainers, and a thrifted grey turtleneck that had seen better days. I hadn't even bothered to put some curling mousse through my hair that morning, so I looked a tad more ragamuffin than usual. It was even more pronounced when walking beside Holly's perfectly tousled French braid, which I couldn't help but eye enviously.

Holly found the exact type, color, and size of tights she needed within moments, and we left the lingerie section without further ado (no matter how friendly Holly and I were, there was no way in hell I would try on bras with another person present, so I resolved to come back on my own later). While I was looking for replacements to a newly depleted wardrobe, Holly was apparently just looking for something new, and so she more or less followed my lead as I wandered through the junior's section. For a little while, I pointedly ignored the clearance racks, trying to at least give the impression that I was above them—but I quickly gave that up when Holly helpfully pointed them out.

"You shop in the clearance racks too, Holly?" I asked as I sifted through the medium sized t-shirts. Holly was in the next aisle over, going over a selection of petite cardigans.

"What's that supposed to mean?" She glanced up to arch an eyebrow at me.

"Nothing," I said quickly, trying to sound ameliorating. "I just never pictured you going through them, I guess."

"Well, I'm not rich, if that's what you were thinking." She huffed a laugh as if she'd told an inside joke. "As much as I like working for Lockwood & Co., it's not like we make enough cash to shop any other way."

"You got that right," I muttered, withdrawing a potential t-shirt from the rack for closer inspection. It was a dark heather grey with the words NOT YOUR PROBLEM printed in a pale blue on the front. Deeming it a potential match, I tossed it over one arm.

"Hey, what do you think of this one?" Holly asked, putting a floral print cardigan to her chest for me to see.

I tried to look at it objectively, instead of following my instincts and rejecting it outright. Just because it would look lurid on me didn't mean it would look bad on Holly, and I was above trying to sabotage her. (At least, I was above it _now.)_

"Hmm… I think it could work," I said, unable to give any more solid fashion advice. "But I don't know why you'd ask me. You're like a zillion times better at this fashion stuff than I am."

"Oh, please," she scoffed, but a small smile betrayed her pride. "We just have different tastes, is all."

Couldn't argue with her there. "If you say so."

We continued browsing for a few minutes in silence, absorbed in flicking through the items in front of us. My mind was a constant stream of "No, no, too short, too many sequins, wrong size, no, too sheer, maybe if it were black, no, too many holes, too orange, no, no, no…" ad nauseum, until Holly mercifully interrupted.

"Oh, I think this would look great on you, Luce!" she said enthusiastically, holding out a rose-colored long sleeve shirt with a black floral print. It was kind of cute, actually, and I reached out to pluck it from her hands—when I caught sight of the size on the label.

"Oh, um. That won't fit me," I said flatly, dropping my hand to my side. "Too small."

"Oh!" Holly said, flushing a little. "I didn't realize. Sorry, Luce." She placed the shirt back on the rack in a hurry, offering me a grimace instead.

"No, it's fine," I sighed, already flicking back through the shirts on my end of the rack. "I just don't have your sort of effortless physique, I'm afraid. I'm too fond of crisps and biscuits."

I was past getting upset that I didn't fit in the petite sizes. At least when it came to shirts I could still fit in the junior's medium and large sizes—when it came to skirts, I had to look in the women's section to get waistbands that could fit over my hips. Admittedly, I was still a little salty about that one.

I was broken from my thoughts to see Holly pursing her lips, staring into the middle distance.

"Holly?"

She exhaled sharply, resting her hand on a hanger.

"You know, it's not actually effortless," she said, and I could tell she was trying to sound unaffected. In fact, she sounded quite tired all of a sudden. "I put a _lot_ of work into this."

"Really?" She could've fooled me.

"Of course! You think it's easy to eat salads and chia seed smoothies when I work at Portland Row? It takes a lot of self discipline."

I admit George _was_ trying rather hard to get her to join us in our hedonistic love of donuts, pastries, and other generally unhealthy foods. Still didn't see the appeal to eating chia seeds, though. "I suppose you're right. So why do you do it, then?"

"Because I like being in control of my body," she replied, draping a pastel yellow jumper over one arm. "Well, I like being in control generally."

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

Holly magnanimously ignored my sarcasm, continuing. "With the Problem being what it is, it's really easy to feel like the world is spiraling into chaos. I realized that there's only so much in life that I actually have a say in, and my appearance is one of those things."

"Huh." When she put it like that, it made an awful lot of sense. Part of me was a tad disappointed with that revelation – I guess deep down I was still a little resentful that Holly seemed so put together when I didn't.

"I admit it's flattering that you think I'm naturally like this, but that's because you don't see how it takes me two hours to get ready each morning, plus an hour before bed."

"What?" I asked, jerking my head up from the array of shirts to stare at her dumbly. "_Two hours_?"

She nodded solemnly, and I blew a heavy breath through my cheeks. My daily routine took roughly half an hour on a slow day—ten, if I was running late. I dragged a hand through my bangs, noting with vague disappointment how they weren't growing out as quickly as I wanted.

"So," I said as I moved on to the women's section of the store to look for a new skirt, "You're saying you get zits like everyone else?" Holly followed me only somewhat reluctantly, more to correct my misconceptions than anything else.

"More or less, yes. Although a good facial regimen does wonders."

She had an answer for every misfortune that could ever befall someone in the looks department. On my part, I racked my brain for something, _anything_ that she didn't include in her self-care regimen. It was apparently on the same level as a doomsday prepper's plans for the apocalypse.

"What about bad hair days?"

"Dry shampoo helps with mine. And mousse."

"Hangnails?"

"Weekly manicures with my flatmate and daily lotion application."

"Eye bags?"

"Face masks during the manicures."

"Stretch marks?"

"I'm pretty sure everyone gets those, but creams can help."

"Warts?"

"_Warts_? I think that's a general hygiene thing. But no, I suppose I don't get warts."

That was an odd note to end on, but I couldn't think of anything else to drill her on. At this point I had three shirts and four skirts ready to try on.

"Wow, Hol. You really like to plan for everything, don't you?"

"Is that a bad thing?" she asked while I tried to locate the changing rooms. She nudged my arm and pointed to a corner off to our right.

"Guess not." I shrugged. "I think part of why I didn't like you much at first was because I thought you were too perfect. At least now I know how hard you work for it."

"Huh." Now it was Holly's turn to look surprised. "I thought you didn't like me because I was in the way of you and Lockwood."

A little strangled noise escaped me, and Holly tried valiantly not to laugh at my expression. "Was not," was all I could get out as a flush rose up my neck. She'd already told me months ago that she wasn't interested in him (and since told me who she really had her sights on), but it was still embarrassing to think about how jealous I'd gotten.

"Sure," Holly said, her tone placating even as her eyes told me she didn't believe me in the slightest. She took the little placard from the clerk manning the changing rooms and we stepped into adjoining stalls.

The conversation halted for a minute as we began trying on our finds, but Holly quickly shattered the silence.

"Speaking of Lockwood," she said, cracking the door to her stall and peeking out at me. "How far have you two gone?"

I let out an undignified squawk, and Holly simply burst into a fit of giggles and closed the door, leaving me to try and cool down the embarrassment.

"If _that's_ the conversation you want to have, we're never doing 'girl's day' ever again!"

* * *

A/N: I didn't expect this to be the longest one shot so far? I'm just a sucker for female bonding and Lucy getting over her internalized misogyny. While we're at it, I really wish Holly and Lucy'd had a canon conversation along these lines, instead of ignoring how Lucy unfairly judged Holly based on her looks. Oh well. That's what fanfic is for, I suppose.


	5. Uh Oh

A/N: i'm relistening to the audiobooks for the second time (because hyperfixations) and i am once again blown away by how i KNOW lockwood is smitten but i can't pin down exactly when it happens. so this happened. take it i cant be the only one to think about my headcanons anymore

* * *

Anthony Lockwood was sitting in his leather armchair staring blankly at the pages of a gossip magazine when he had a sudden revelation that he might - _possibly_ \- be in love.

"_Ten Signs He Secretly Loves You" (_one of those slightly trashy listicles that so often littered the pages of the magazines) had managed to catch his eye while he flipped idly through it. He scanned the list with the mildest of interest at first, and then stopped cold. Some of the tips seemed way too familiar.

Like this one: "_He gives you little gifts_." He frowned at the bold pink text, musing over its implications. Sure, there was Jessica's old necklace, but that was to complete Lucy's outfit and make her look more appropriate for the Fitte's fancy dress party. And sure, maybe he'd recently made a habit of picking flowers that reminded him of her, but since he didn't actually _give_ those to her - they were instead safely pressed between the pages of his mother's copy of Shakespeare's collected comedies, which he kept in his room - they didn't count.

The next one, which was about overabundant eye contact, was equally accusing. It made him sound like he constantly ogled her, which he did _not_! Eye contact was a sign of respect, he reminded himself. He _respected_ Lucy. George and Holly, too, for that matter.

Grudgingly, though, he had to admit that Lucy's dark gray eyes were remarkably easy to get lost in. Ever since her return to the company a month ago, he'd occasionally feel himself being ensnared in her gaze like a mild form of ghost lock - it was equally effective at holding him still, stealing his breath, and making him unable to tear his eyes away.

But that was obviously something the matter with _her_. Her remarkable Talent, maybe? Some sort of late-blooming natural charisma?

As he read further and further along with the list ("_He picks up on your wardrobe changes… He tries to impress you… He takes every chance to make physical contact_"), however, he felt a pit open up in his stomach.

Did he do all of this?

...Was he in love?

He immediately sat up, eyebrows furrowed, and dropped the offending magazine on the coffee table. That couldn't be right.

He was not in love with Lucy.

Right?

There was no helping it; he'd have to get a second opinion. Luckily for him, George was in his usual spot on the couch reading a comic.

"George," Lockwood said, trying perhaps just a bit too hard to sound nonchalant. "Do you put any stock in these advice columns? They seem made up to me."

George hardly looked up from his comic to glance at the magazine Lockwood gestured to. "Wouldn't know. I haven't tried reading one, I don't think."

"Oh? Me either," he said hurriedly, shaking his head. "It's just- this one says if a guy compliments you a lot, he might be in love with you. Does that sound real to you?"

"Not many guys make it a habit to compliment me, I'm afraid," George said dryly. "What's this about?"

"Oh, you know. Just trying to gauge the validity of the article."

Lockwood could tell George had caught on to his discomfort by the way his glasses flashed suddenly. "What for? Why are you even interested in that kind of article in the first place?"

Lockwood exhaled shortly, scratched at an ear. "That's not important. And obviously, you have no idea either, so that's the end of it."

"Oh, I get it now," George said, letting out a remarkably smug sounding snort. "Took you long enough to get a clue." The smugness dropped suddenly. "Oh, drat. I owe Holly ten quid now."

Lockwood narrowed his eyes. "You mean you and Holly made a bet about me? What were the terms?" He'd meant to sound cross, but it came out more as mildly interested instead.

George sighed, the initial satisfaction of watching someone else come to a realization he'd had long ago overshadowed by his impending loss of pocket money. He waved a hand dismissively. "She bet that you would figure it out before May Day. I bet you would lie to yourself for at least two more years."

"What d'you mean, 'more'?" Lockwood tilted his head, his eyes still narrowed. "This is a recent development."

George's hand patted the air patronizingly as if he was a grandfather mollifying a young child. "Sure it is."

He paused at that, mentally adding another bullet point to his list of things to think about while staring at his ceiling tonight. If even George noticed him, then he wasn't as secretive with his emotions as he'd thought.

The pit in his stomach opened wider.

Oh god. Had Lucy…?

He threw up a hand to bat the thought away. She couldn't have. Might've... Ugh, he would think about this later. Leveling his best dry look at George, he desperately grasped for a new, distracting line of conversation.

"Any other bets I should know about? Ones involving me?" _Or Lucy_, he added silently.

George shrugged. "Oh, just the usual. Lucy bet that she would close more cases this month than me and Holly combined, which is just _totally_ off base-"

"That's not implausible, actually," Lockwood interrupted. "Sorry, George."

"We'll see," George replied, unperturbed. "Oh, we do have this one _other_ bet. See, Holly thinks that you'll make the first move, but Kipps reckons it'll be _Lucy_ who -"

Before Lockwood could complain about Kipps' involvement in their private matters, another voice chimed in from the doorway.

"Kipps reckons I'll what?" Lucy asked, her gray eyes on George as she brought her steaming mug of tea into the room. "If it's anything short of saving his life on our next job, he's delusional."

The yawning pit in Lockwood's stomach erupted into butterflies the moment she entered the room.

Smooth as a catfish, George diverted his confession into a lie. "He reckons you'll be the first one to spot a Visitor next, Luce. He knows your Talent's strong."

She sniffed, mollified, and plopped down onto the sofa. Crisis averted, George grinned at Lockwood over his comic. Lockwood wanted to smack him, but restrained himself so as not to give away the game.

"I'd put my money on that too," he said, picking up the magazine - only to have that ground shaking article staring back at him again. The butterflies raged in his stomach, unignorable and undeniable.

So it was true. He was in love with Lucy.

Now what?


End file.
